Staceyann Chin

275 Grand in Brooklyn...

... and I am snowed into the folds
of friendship

warm hearts
and good food

my favorite smoked
salmon
everything bagel and cream cheese

no pesto today
just a salad

red building and laughter
loud
and allegations of what could have been

had my judgement been
sharper then

wish you were here
all of you

to see the pillows
of white falling steady

beautiful
and no one knows for sure who sang

momma used to say
don't you rush to get old

momma used to say
all sorts of advice

ignored in the heated passion
of things hoped for

dreamed of
and afternoons carved out for soft conversations

and friends missed
longed for

but I lift my glass
to your request

whatever you ask
I will grant

if it cradles the curves of me
in respect

truth

truth is a boy who took pictures of me
in Sweden

and made me pretty
under the setting sun

I hope you are wearing the scent of me
sent to you in waves
of letters

mailed
checked on

and I wait for you to recieve me
wait hard

in vain, perhaps?
who knows what the postal system
will do in such brutally splendid weather

New York was colder than Denver
in January

what a laugh the gods must be
cackling

lappin they frock tail
with the tales of us shivering
and aching

for each other
for you I am unsure
of what consititutes boundary

all of you hints
accessible

not really open
but not pad-locked away

a mist of horrors
and my fingers caress these keys
for lack of your flesh

lack of breath
against the nape of my neck

the back of my neck
is on end

for you
voice silly and scared

simultaneous
slivers of sensible and slipping
caution under the soft blanket of chance

you changed me
more than I knew

I wear you now
stains of alleged horrors
survived

me and a web-crazy Latino boy
sitting to my left

he be looking at my pictures
and making appropriate noises

showing me
his grandfather with Mexico in his eyes

I love this place
Carmen
and Mark

and Sundays
and Wednesdays

and any day I be feeling
wet in my mouth
they make space for my making tears

I be singing these tears
as poems

most days
I be wanting to be a poet

poetry
is most of the method behind what maddens me
most

most days I just be floating on a moment
designed to lift me angel and dust

from what makes me
slip sturdy under the jugular

of gravity
gone wild,

till the storm done blow,
Staceyann

Posted by staceyann at January 22, 2005 03:45 PM